


Sweet and Sourwolf

by AlmostGinger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:59:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9402659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmostGinger/pseuds/AlmostGinger
Summary: Collection of Sterek drabbles and one shots.  Please enjoy responsibly





	1. Chapter 1

In every sunflower

The ground was firm under his boots, the fallen leaves crisp due to the turn in the weather. He walked the short path to the old house, the leaves crunching so loud in his ears it almost drowned out the unusually fast beating of his heart.   
It had been years since the fire, he didn’t even live in Beacon Hills anymore. Still, every year he made the trip, he didn’t know how else to behave on April 21st. He pulled the collar up on his leather jacket, an unconscious attempt to keep himself grounded to his past. His heart stopped momentarily as the derelict house came into his line of sight. The wood still charred and splintered just as he remembered. He could still smell the smoke. And the terror, the smell of his family’s pain still residing in the flaking paintwork. He ignored the nausea rising in his stomach and gripped tighter to the bunch of sunflowers in his hand.  
Before he reached the front step he paused, somebody had been here. There, on the front porch was a bouquet of dark crimson roses. Eight roses, one for each member of his family that had perished in the fire.   
He tried harder to focus his senses, to ignore the pain and lingering memories of the fire. He honed in on something, a faint scent of something. Someone. Peppermint with a hint of jeep oil. Stiles. Of course, Stiles. Damn Stiles and his constant, overzealous caring. A decade later and Stiles still cared. Derek didn’t have the capacity to deal with that, not today. He sat on the front step of his former home and let himself cry.

 

*Title is taken from the Bell X1 song of the same name, listen to it. It's beautiful.


	2. Sickly sourwolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek gets the sniffles.

“He’s got the canine strain of the varicella-voster virus” says Deaton, his voice sounds mechanical and tinny on Scott’s speakerphone.  
“The Verruca Salt whatnow?” says Stiles.  
“He’s got doggy chicken pox” says Lydia with a sigh. Scott and Stiles look at Lydia in a mix of awe and slight terror at the thought of just how much knowledge she’s hiding in that pretty head of hers.  
“It’s highly contagious” Deaton continues.  
“I thought werewolves don’t get sick” replies Scott.  
“Werewolves can heal quickly, but you should know by now, that there are always exceptions to the rule. This is one of those exceptions. He’s going to be in a lot of discomfort, hallucinations often accompany the fever. It is highly contagious, but only to those of a certain disposition”  
“What do you mean, disposition? Werewolves?” asks Scott.  
“Anyone with extra abilities, Werewolves, kitsune, banshees, all at are great risk of infection” Deaton replies.  
Scott looks to his best friend, he really is the only one who can help.  
“Really? Seriously? You think it doesn’t suck enough being the only human in the pack? Now you gotta make me nurse to the sour wolf?”  
An hour later Stiles is knocking at Derek’s door, an overnight bag under one arm and a bag of medical supplies under the other.  
Derek looks awful, well not awful, the man is an Adonis even in the midst of an evil strain of werewolf chicken pox or whatever Deaton said. He doesn’t look well. He is pale and his forehead is dotted with beads of sweat.  
“You didn’t need to come” he grumbles as he opens the door and then pads straight back to the sofa and plonks down in a most ungraceful way. Stiles has seen Derek in varying degrees of injury, he didn’t look this bad when he was bleeding out after Kate shot him. Derek has completely given in.  
“You have totally got man flu right now” Says Stiles cheerfully, perching next to him on the sofa. Derek raises one sardonic brow and then turns back to watching the TV.  
“This is not how I expected an Alpha to respond to chicken pox. Seriously dude, flannel PJ’s? And what is that you’re watching? Wait, is this Moulin Rouge? Dude, Are you sure it’s not just PMS?” Stiles chuckles.  
Derek flares his nostrils a little but doesn’t reply.  
“Well, lucky for you, I brought a small field hospital worth of medicine for you. We’ll have you all bright red eyed and bushy tailed again in no time” says Stiles as he rummages around in his bag, pulling out various antidotes, both human-centric and some more mystical ointments.  
“We got asprin, Lemsip, Lucozade and some funky tea from Deaton, in summary a super healthy cocktail” he says with a grin. Derek doesn’t even acknowledge him.  
“Well that’s just rude. I’m missing lacrosse practice to dog sit, just saying. I’m gonna make you some lunch, see if some sustenance can improve your mood” he says getting up and wandering off into Derek’s kitchen. It takes him a while to get his bearings. Sure, he knows how to cook, but cooking in somebody else’s kitchen is always weird, he scrambles through several cupboards to find a suitable pan, and he is dismayed to discover that Derek doesn’t even own a grater. The savage. He improvises and manages to make the soup. He takes a steaming bowl and chunk of fresh bread he picked up from the store to the forlorn figure on the sofa.  
“Here you go Sickly Sue, a super soup. Filled with vitamins and immunity boosters” says Stiles, presenting it to him with a flourish.  
“What is it?” Derek eyes the bowl of nearly neon orange liquid with appropriate caution.  
“Carrot and bacon dude, trust me, it’ll make you feel better” he says handing Derek a spoon.  
Derek tentatively tries a small mouthful, as though he expects it to be laced with wolfsbane. He is pleasantly surprised at the flavour. Stiles made some mean soup. Who knew?  
Derek eats the soup with an impressive speed.  
“Woah, I should have just let you lap it out the bowl huh wolfman?” teases Stiles, secretly delighted that Derek is enjoying his soup so much.  
“Is there any more?” asks Derek, once he’s used the bread to mop up every last bit of soup in his bowl.  
“Coming right up”  
Three bowls of soup later, Derek is contentedly curled up on the sofa, snoring softly under a blanket. It’s the most ridiculously endearing thing Stiles has ever seen.


End file.
